Free Growth by Jeff Jacobson

said. “How you doing?”
    â€œAw hell, you know. Can’t complain. Well, I could, you know, but nobody’d listen,” Purcell laughed. “How’s the new job working out for ya?”
    â€œNot exactly what I expected.”
    â€œI’ll bet.”
    â€œHeard you were working on an organic certification.”
    â€œYeah, yeah. They’re makin’ me jump through more hoops than a goddamn circus freak.” He rested his forearms on the gate and shook his head. “They got people crawling all over my farm, taking samples of everything, the soil, the water, the corn. Surprised they didn’t want a sample of my piss.”
    Neither Purcell nor Sandy acted as if the three brothers in the backseat of the cruiser even existed. They might have been two old friends shooting the shit on a slow Sunday afternoon.
    â€œStill, it’s worth it,” Purcell continued. “Seems to me it’s maybe the last act of freedom we have left, not being forced to put all these asshole chemicals in our food.”
    Sandy got a better look at the man. It looked like his wife had been keeping his hair short with the sheep shears. Ropy muscles slid and rolled under leathery skin. His eyes sparkled in the glow of the headlights. Purcell was getting old, but he was still tougher than tree bark.
    â€œWell, best of luck to you,” Sandy said. “Suppose it’s time we get down to the reason I’m out here.”
    â€œThought you might, sooner or later.”
    â€œYour boys, they were causing the Whistle Stop some problems. Gave the bouncer a hard time. Now, he’s a good guy. Not the kind of bouncer that picks on folks ’cause he gets bored.”
    â€œCan’t say I’m surprised. They been awful jumpy these past few days. Thought they might blow off some steam somewhere. So . . . why’d you bring ’em back here? Seems to me, folks like you think they belong in jail for a night or two, they cause that kind of ruckus. Ain’t that what usually happens?”
    â€œUsually.”
    â€œYeah, and you brought ’em back here. Why’s that?”
    Sandy shrugged. “You helped my dad out once. Figured I owed you one for my family.” Her family car’s tire had blown out on the way for an Easter Sunday church service in 1994. Purcell, who had clearly spent the night in his pickup, was on his way home from a night out. He pulled over and helped Sandy’s dad pull off the tire and even donated the spare tire when he discovered Sandy’s dad didn’t have one.
    â€œShit. I’ll take your word for it.” He grinned in the headlights. “Don’t remember much. That was what, twenty some-odd years ago? You been waiting all this time to say thanks? Coulda sent a thank-you card.”
    Sandy didn’t answer. It was difficult to explain. She just knew she would never forget the image of this man as he loped across the highway twenty years ago, long hair in his face, carrying the tire over his shoulder, hair sticking to both the tire and his tongue. He took the jack from Sandy’s dad without a word and crawled under the car. Sandy and her mom waited way, way back, damn near in the freshly plowed field. It was still a little close for Sandy’s mom, who wasn’t sure if they should break into a run, fleeing to the nearest farmhouse, or offer the man some freshly baked cookies as a thank-you. Sandy didn’t know why her mom was so nervous; she understood just fine that the man was helping them.
    This wild man, this force of nature, this was her first real encounter with a human who had endured unthinkable violence as well as inflicted severe pain on others. At eight, she had listened keenly to her parents’ private conversations and had heard of Purcell Fitzgimmon. He supposedly put a poor mail carrier in intensive care due to the unacceptable condition of a package.
    And yet here he was, calm and collected and kind